A Change of Plan
by MissMallora
Summary: A Stark loses their head in the name of Joffrey Baratheon's justice, but it is not Eddard Stark.
1. Chapter 1

The sun beat down ruthlessly overhead in one final rebellion against the long winter encroaching on them. The crowd which had gathered at their feet was as hot and sweaty as she herself was, although she tried not to let it show. _A lady does not sweat, nor smell of dirt and grime. _Sansa stood stiffly atop the steps alongside the royal family and their guards, her eyes following the motions of a man weaving through the crowd of jeering commonfolk, tall and still strong despite the unusually sunken-in hollows in his cheeks. Her heart faltered at the sight, and she turned her gaze resolutely to the direction of the young crowned King, standing imperiously in his finest clothes.

Sansa found herself smiling in relief at the sight of her betrothed, smiling in the comforting thought that though things had gone terribly wrong, it would be made right after all. Her father would confess his sins, and repent, and her lovely King would make her his bride and all this nonsense could be put in the past. After her father was released and Arya found safe, all could be forgiven, all could be fixed. Her father had made a mistake from grief in accusing the Queen of such things, but it could be forgiven, it could be made right with time and patience.

_Joffrey was so utterly handsome. _

Her prince smiled at her with what Sansa prayed was reassurance but felt far too spiteful for her taste. _Nothing which cannot be fixed,_ she reminded herself carefully, and then amended. _Nothing which cannot be ignored. _

When the great Lord Eddard Stark climbed onto the steps, he turned without another word to the King or the Queen Regent and instead addressed the crowd of calculating commoners, who watched him in disdain and superstition. Her father spoke to them as though they weren't even there, loud and strong despite the way his shoulders were hunched and his arms hung limp as though he'd not eaten in days. Sansa's heart gave a terrible wrench at the sight—her father was never meant to be a frail man, never. She would see to it that he was sent safe to the Wall, at least. Winterfell, if possible. Perhaps he could come visit Winterfell the way her Uncle Benjen did on the rare occasion. She thought that being a Watcher on the Wall would suit him well, even if being Lord and Warden in the north suited him far better.

_Any place which keeps you alive is better than one which wishes you dead, _Sansa reminded herself calmly, placating her fear for her father's happiness. _First you must see him safe. Then we shall see what is to be done for his happiness. _Perhaps when she was wed to Joffrey, Sansa could convince him to release her father of his vows to the Night's Watch. Her father was proud and honorable, and certainly no oath-breaker, but she thought he might even break a vow if it meant he could return home to his family.

When Ned Stark finished speaking, finished declaring himself a traitor and a fool and asserting Joffrey as the rightful king, he stopped and looked expectantly to the King himself, waiting for the young boy's words. The crowd seemed unimpressed, but they were rarely anything else. Ned's eyes sought his daughter's and Sansa smiled reassuringly at him, nodding, pleased. He didn't return the smile, his face taught with stress and, she did not doubt, self-loathing. Her father was, as she had claimed before, an honorable man. If he thought he was lying in professing himself a seeker of the throne, Sansa didn't doubt it sat ill on his conscience, even if it would save his life.

Sansa turned to her betrothed and watched expectantly as her king rose to his feet, steady and with a swagger. Chin held high, he spoke to his own people as though they smelled foul, as though they were so far beneath him he couldn't even bother trying to look. Cersei took his side, of course, as strangely bored and exquisitely beautiful as she always was. Sansa envied her in that moment more than ever before, envied her for her ability to hide behind Joffrey's power and noble blood.

The crowd went silent as their King made to speak, dashing and bold and fearless. Sansa's heart lurched again, because there was no mistaking the vindictive and hard glint to his eyes. She wrung her hands under the shelter of the long draping sleeves of her dress.

Joffrey's mouth curled into a grim smile, utterly smug and all-knowing in his triumph. "My mother and my lady have both asked me to spare the life of this traitor. They would see him go north, north beyond the Wall where death may yet find him still. But they have the soft hearts of women, and your king is no such fool."

Sansa felt as though her heart had fallen into her stomach, as though the ground had slid from under her feet. _He couldn't mean…could he? No! I begged him! Father confessed—he did as he asked!_

But the young king continued with all the authority of the most important man in Westeros—and he was, technically—and his new words brought even worse panic than before.

"My people, much as I would love to show you what justice looks like of a disgusting traitor"-here the crowd roared in approval-"this man is a Lord of the north, and his value is great. Sparing him might yet bring the dogs of Winterfell to their knees." And then Joffrey was looking to her, to Sansa, and she thought she might faint or be ill before he had even spoken.

"But what good is an unflowered cunt? What good is a woman who cannot bear me children yet?" Joffrey's smile was as cruel as ever, his eyes glinted hard in the sun. A pair of hands seized either of Sansa's arms from behind her, and she sank to the ground slowly, down to her trembling knees in a daze of horror.

"Your Grace," she tried to say, but the roar from the crowds was too loud, their approval so great. The title stuck to her mouth, refused to come out right. "Your Grace!"

Beside him, Sansa could see Cersei Lannister speaking urgently to her son's ear, eyes wide with something akin to urgency. It was like the Queen Regent was invisible. For Joffrey shouted, loudly and with confidence, "BRING ME SANSA STARK'S HEAD!"

And Sansa began to beg.

"Your Grace, please!" she sobbed, and found despite the cheering crowd that she wasn't alone in her desperation. There on the other side of the stage was her father, her strong father who had beaten down two guards upon Joffrey's mad order, and lunged for her, his eyes wide with a sort of terror and desperation she had never seen in all her life. He was screaming, _screaming, _for her, for the king to spare her, for someone to stop him. One of Joffrey's guards finally overwhelmed Ned, though, and wrestled him to the ground so that his head still faced Sansa, so that he still saw everything which unfolded.

"Daddy!" Sansa cried out to the only man who would help her, the only one who could. "Daddy!" Weeping, she struggled as Janos Slynt kicked her feet out from under her and threw her bodily onto the block of wood. Her father was gone from her vision, but the sound of his voice was as loud as though it were the only one in the world.

Somehow, despite the wildly tragic circumstances, Sansa found herself praying. For what, she wasn't certain. For her father, for her mother. For her brothers and sister and even Jon, who she had treated so poorly, and Septa Mordane, and her family's direwolves—_oh Lady, forgive me…I'll see you soon…_

Behind her she could hear Ilyn Payne unsheathe her father's greatsword, Ice. She knew the sound well; how many times had she sat at her father's feet and watched him work, watched him sharpen the blade and wipe it down and lecture Robb and Jon and Bran on the importance of maintaining your weapon, for it's usefulness could be the difference between life and death.

_The difference between my life and death now._

"Please, Your Grace!" Ned was shouting over all of them, the effort of his struggle plain in his voice. "Please—my life for hers! Please, please! I beg you! She's my daughter! _She's my daughter!"_

Sansa looked over her shoulder to Joffrey, where he was still smiling cruelly, still utterly sure of himself. And just behind Joffrey was his dog, the Hound, whose face was oddly blank and unusually horrified, as though even he was surprised at his master's actions.

She called to him even as Ser Ilyn Payne approached the block, the crowd falling silent in anticipation. Someone jerked Sansa hard into place, so that he might swing with ease.

_You wanted a knight to sweep you off your feet and marry you, you stupid girl. The only thing this knight will do is take your head. _

"Your Grace!" Sansa sobbed, tears spilling over freely. Cersei, the Golden Queen, was watching with an unfathomable expression of pity and hate. The Hound looked like someone had ripped a blade over his belly, true horror plain in his eyes, even the one which was impeded by the scarred flesh.

Ned was still shouting, still calling for her.

"No, please, no! I'm sorry! _Gods, I'm so sorry, please! Please!" _His voice faltered with a grunt as though he had been kicked, and Sansa cried more.

_Father. Mother. Robb. Bran. Rickon. Arya. Jon. Lady. Jeyne. I miss you. I don't want to leave you._

There was a hush over the crowd, and even her father's weeping seemed to soften with it, though she still heard him pleading, quietly but no less urgently. _My life for hers, please. My girl, my daughter… Please…_

Sansa looked up at the last second and saw the tall statue in the center of the crowd, saw the man holding a filthy looking urchin, a young girl with wide eyes and dark hair…

_Arya. Arya is safe. _Sansa let herself feel relief for only a second, just that second… The man turned her away as the high, light whistle of a blade slicing through nothingness pierced the air, and Sansa knew well enough to tell that Ilyn had lifted the sword high, the slab of steel her father had carried and swore to use to defend her, swore to protect her with it…

_I don't want to die. _The thought was full of clarity and understanding, clearer than anything else Sansa had ever felt in her entire life. _I don't want to die. _

_Father. Mother. Robb. Bran. Rickon. Arya. I miss you. I don't want to_


	2. Chapter 2

The day Eddard Stark was to be sent north to the Wall, word came of Jaime Lannister's capture. She didn't want to believe it at first—could scarcely do so, actually—but more ravens came from the Lannister men who had escaped imprisonment at the hands of the Starks by some fated means, and the words in their letters were as dark as the wings of the ravens which carried them.

Inevitably, she was incised, and her fury was so potent that she couldn't bear to look at the man whose hands had been shackled for so long that his wrists were red and rubbed raw. Her son, eldest that is, had taken a shining to calling on the former Lord of Winterfell (he had been officially stripped of his titles, though Cersei knew it made little difference to the northerners who loved Ned wholly); whenever a battle had fared poorly for the crown, Joffrey was enraged to the point of violence, and he always took it out on Eddard Stark.

He'd not maimed Ned yet, not permanently, although Cersei had the feeling that there would be nothing left of the man if Tywin didn't insist on making the exchange soon. Joffrey was being restrained only by her constant coaxing, Tyrion's blatant rude scolding, and his own half-thought out plans. If Ned's life was left in his hands much longer, there was no doubt in the Queen Regent's mind that she would have another Stark corpse to explain.

Ever since the execution of Ned Stark's oldest girl, everything had changed. Barristan Selmy had been dismissed—hardly a loss, in her eyes—but the capabilities of the new Kingsguard were dubious, in Cersei's view. Even the Hound had seemingly lost some of his edge, lost some of the stronger qualities which had made him worthy of the job in the first place. If her father hadn't commandeered Gregor into his own service for fighting the war, Cersei would have sent for him long ago to replace his brother, who was more surly and ill-tempered than he'd ever been in his life.

News of Sansa Stark's death spread like wildfire, and it evoked strong reactions from nearly every corner of the realm. In the south, the far south, Dorne had reacted with disgust and disdain for the grotesque crime, and it was no guess for the Lannister Queen as to why. The Martell's had ever been a hot-blooded family, quick to insult and slow to forgive, and Cersei's family had done more than most to deserve their anger. With the exception, perhaps, of the Mountain himself.

According to Cersei's Imp brother, the Stormlands had reacted none the better, and in fact were spurred on by Joffrey's unjust actions. The only saving grace was that they were divided for the time being, with stupid false-king Renly trying to crown himself, and Stannis bickering with him like they were still children. Easily dealt with, in time.

"It lends credibility to Stannis' claim," Tyrion informed her over a tall flask of wine. "If the royal family is going about killing innocent girls and slaughtering babes—because more know about that then you think, dear sister—it is no surprise that they all hate us."

"I don't care," Cersei had said. "Joffrey's their King. They will bow to him in time, or die for their insolence." She had meant it then, as she meant it still. Her son belonged on that throne and come all the seven hells or high water, she would see him there.

If only she could press the importance of Ned Stark's life on that same son…

But it was so difficult convincing Joffrey of anything. She could tell him not to walk in the streets unprotected to save his own life, and he might try it anyways just to spite her. Her grasp on him, her lioness' claws, were slackening, and the hold she'd kept all his life was nearly gone. He was unleashed and feral, and she very much feared for the whole of the kingdom—and more importantly her family—for it.

Besides that, Joffrey hated Ned Stark _so much. _It was expected, of course, what with the…_foul rumors _Ned had tried to spread (and had succeeded at, to some lesser degree). The implication, however slight it might be, that Joffrey's bloodline was anything less than pure, was met with hideous maiming or else death. Ned had been spared both, yes, but not for long, and not entirely.

Cersei had been in court the first time Ned had been called on to attend a session. Bound and chained like a wild dog, he was dragged in, feet stumbling one after the other to try and walk on his own to no success. Meryn Trant had him by the arm, and drove him to his knees with one swift blow to the ribs.

"Eddard Stark," Joffrey called to him, sprawled regally on the Iron Throne. He sat it as though he'd done so all his life. "Has no one told you how to dress when your King calls on you? You look like an urchin pulled from the gutters of Flea Bottom." He laughed at his own joke and a few of his guard dared to join in, cruel and menacing. Joffrey fell silent when he saw Ned had remained silent and stony-faced, eyes on the ground in front of him.

Cersei looked at the former Lord then, long and hard, and felt ill with what she saw. Her expectations were much the same as anyone who knew the man had been—that he would succumb to grief, to his guilt, to the loss of his daughter and the uncertainty he felt over the other—but she'd been surprised. Surprised, and disappointed still. On his knees, Ned might have looked humbled and fragile to a fool in court, but Cersei knew an angry man when she saw one.

And if it was one thing which defined the man kneeling in front of her son's throne, it was a very angry man. Silent as he was, Ned's whole body quivered not with grief or tears, but restraint, fury, _bloodlust_. The sight of a man who wanted to kill her son was nothing new to Cersei, sadly. She'd been faced with enemies of the crown for as long as she'd been Queen, even when newly wed to Robert Baratheon. No, that didn't surprise or upset her. The man had lost his daughter—she had enough sense to acknowledge where his pain came from.

The true fact which bothered her then, which bothered her still, was the complete and total awareness that, if Ned Stark was ever allowed to escape his shackles, if he was given even the slightest chance at vengeance, he would take it. If it cost the Quiet Wolf his life, he would die destroying her golden son without a second thought.

Cersei had never seen anger quite like that before. And she prayed she never saw it again.

Alas, her son was not used to the sort of violence directed at him (not so openly anyways), and when Ned didn't respond to his foolish comment, he became insulted, imagining slights against him as always.

"Are you deaf, Ned Stark?" he snapped, and Meryn obediently shot a hand out and yanked at the long dark, greasy hair until Ned's chin was almost jutting straight out, and his eyes had nowhere to look but at Cersei's son.

"You will answer your King, _cunt," _Meryn hissed loudly, shaking his hand which held tight to Ned's scalp for good measure. Ned Stark didn't so much as flinch.

Instead his grey eyes narrowed in on the boy sitting on the throne he'd fought so hard for Robert Baratheon to seize, and said,

"He is not my king."

At once, Joffrey stood up, furious to the point of reaching for his own sword. Meryn hastily delivered a blow to the man's side, likely bruising his ribs if not breaking them. Although Eddard toppled over hard and awkwardly, he didn't so much as grunt.

This was a man who had been taught how to face death, and the threats of this boy didn't frighten him in the least. No, Cersei realized with a cold wash of fear. No, they only served to make him angrier.

Joffrey had dismissed the court then, and instructed his guard to seize their prisoner. Meryn and Blount had either arm, careless of which direction they pulled Ned in, in order to haul him upright and to his feet. As Cersei took her leave she could hear Joffrey practically spitting with anger.

_"You question my blood? You question my rights to the throne? You shall see what happens to traitors, what has happened to their daughters…" _And he exited out the back with his guards dutifully toting Ned along, and before the Hound was out of earshot, Cersei called to him.

"See that your King is protected," she cautioned severely. The scarred warrior didn't say anything, but nodded with a grunt of acquiescence. "Ned Stark is not one to take kindly to disrespect of any dead, let alone his own child."

And she had been right in that much. For when Joffrey had returned to the Throne room, he was almost angrier than before, frothing at the lips and stomping off in what Cersei prayed was the route to his chambers. Ned Stark was brought in much the same way he was brought out to the Serpentine, but he looked—if it were possible—even worse than he'd done before. His legs didn't even pretend to help him, merely dragged along under him in what was most certainly a painful, rubbing sensation, and his upper half sagged over, slumped and defeated in every way. Sharp, guttural sobs were the only sign he was alive, and they were sparse and muffled by his own body, his chin drooped into his chest.

She didn't see him again for a week, mostly because she couldn't bear the sight. Something sat ill on her shoulders—not guilt, such a useless emotion as it was—but perhaps pity. Perhaps she would go so far as to call it disappointment in her golden son, flawless as he was. Ned Stark had been stupider than most to come and _warn Cersei _of his intentions to tell the world she was a brother-fucking queen, but he had been honorable in a way Cersei didn't know was possible. She couldn't _regret _the lengths she'd gone to in keeping her son safe, but the turnout for Ned's life now seemed darkly ironic, even to her.

The court had all reacted differently to Ned Stark's imprisonment and Sansa's execution. None were so stupid as to display open disgust or hostility to their new King, but she had ears and eyes everywhere. Not so many as the Spider, perhaps, but he was in a poor way anyways. Varys had taken a little trip down to the dungeon the great Lord of Winterfell was kept in, and according to her peeping birds, had returned from them with bruises forming rapidly along his throat, shaped distinctly in the imprint of fingers. As though Varys had gone too close to the bars, as though a hand had wrapped around his throat and attempted to squeeze the life out of him with sheer arm strength…

_Varys was a traitor, _Cersei mused. She'd known such for a long time, or she'd known at least that he wasn't entirely devoted to the Lannister cause. The Targaryens had put him in power, after all, and the man had a warped sense of honor. For Ned to react so violently to the Spider (and she didn't doubt that it was in fact Ned who had tried murdering the eunuch), he must have promised Ned something, promised him, perhaps, the safety of someone very dear to the traitorous Lord.

And, Cersei knew very well, Varys had broken that promise. Unintentionally or not.

The Spider could be dealt with in time. There was no way of dismissing him from the council without arousing suspicion, and enough change had happened as it was. Renly had fled, Robert was dead, Ned was imprisoned and Littlefinger, well… Littlefinger was his slippery, shifty self. However foolish it would be to trust Varys, it would be doubly so to put an ounce of faith in the little mockingbird _Petyr Baelish. _It was known well that his loyalties had ever lied with Catelyn Tully, and though he'd helped betray Ned Stark and put him in the dungeons, Cersei didn't doubt he had a plan, as stupid and fruitless as it might have been. The man had a plan, and she would need to divine his secrets very soon if she wished to intercept.

"Robb Stark has pushed for a trade again," Tyrion announced when they dined together in her chambers. Affection for her youngest brother was unheard of in Cersei's world, but he was an unfortunate necessity now that he was acting Hand of the King. And so she was forced to indulge in his little trysts with arrogance and power, forced to sit back and watch and wait for her father to return, hopefully with Jaime shortly behind him.

"Joffrey will agree to the trade," she said quietly, sipping her wine. It was the finest money could buy, and she drank it as though it were red water. "I will make sure of it."

"See that you do," Tyrion leaned back on his chair, stubby legs raised in the air, too short to reach the ground. "Our father isn't a forgiving man. Losing a potential tie to the north was bad enough. Had he left Sansa Stark alive, we might have seen a Lannister ruling a keep in the north."

Her lip curled angrily. "Do you think I don't know all of this? He doesn't listen, not like he used to. He's so…independent." _Cocky, _her mind whispered traitorously. _Blind, _an even quieter voice added.

"Soon as our dear brother is returned and Ned Stark sent north—what then?" Tyrion tilted his head at her. The flagon in his hand swished, a low and hollow sound. It was nearly empty.

"What happens when the Silent Wolf is returned home and his men rally behind him? You can't expect them to retreat and lick their wounds. They are northern men. Winter is coming, and they will outlive us all with ease." He stood up, and walked to the window. The breeze ruffled his dark reddish curls, stirred gooseflesh to her arms.

"What happens is war." She rose to her feet as well, tall and long and elegant, and sent her maids away with a dismissive wave, the barest flick in their direction. "War and death and victory. The Lannisters will win this, winter and all."

"The Lannisters," Tyrion repeated softly, a dark frown to his face. "What noble blood we have."

At once her teeth were bared in a dark sneer of contempt. "Do not think to mock our name in my presence, _Imp. _Just because you are a disappointment does not mean we all must bear the brunt of that shame." Cersei then motioned for him to leave as well. "Get out. I have much to do."

"Of course," Tyrion simpered, and waddled out. Over his shoulder she could hear him call after her, "Pray to the gods our family needn't ever bear the brunt of _your _shame, sweet sister. Gods help us all." The ceramic flagon shattered feet away from his head, where she'd cast it against the wall in a fit of rage.

A week later, Ned Stark was sent to Riverrun in exchange for Jaime Lannister.


End file.
